


"Moe"

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Animal Attachments, Escape, Gen, Kitten, Robbery, tracking devices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-12-30 10:31:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18313742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: This fiction takes place during the first year that Neal was working with Peter, long before they had yet established any bond of trust. The story opens by showcasing Neal’s softer side when he rescues an abandoned kitten. Unfortunately, the cat grows to intensely dislike Peter. When Neal is framed for a theft, he flies the coop, and Peter is left with the little black demonic monster from hell.





	1. The Foundling

**Author's Note:**

> Follows canon, sort of, but then veers off into uncharted territory.

Neal loved to run, and wasn’t that an analogy for his whole life. But on this chilly spring evening, he was actually running along a jogging path located beside the city’s iconic High Line. The High Line was a recently constructed park and greenspace that had found its new home along an old, disused spur of The New York City Railroad on the west side of Manhattan. The 1.5-mile elevated expanse ran from Gansevoort Street in the Meatpacking district, then under the Chelsea Market, a food hall at 15th Street, and extended all the way to 34th Street near the Javits Center.

Neal had slowed his pace after his rigorous workout and was in the process of cooling down from the strenuous sprint. He was just above the water line near the open-air market when he thought he heard a pitiful sound coming from somewhere below him. He peered over the railing to the sluggish stream meandering its way in the viaduct, and caught sight of something small and black clinging to the remnants of an old, wooden vegetable crate. Well, Neal couldn’t just walk away and ignore the cries of distress, so he ducked between the steel rails and slid down the bank to get a closer look. A very small and bedraggled kitten had its tiny claws firmly entrenched in the flimsy wood, and Neal had to pry each delicate little nail from its lifeline. The abandoned animal was wet and cold and continued to cry pitifully. At first glance, the tiny baby looked almost brand new, and Neal wondered how it had become separated from its mother. He didn’t see any feral cats lurking about, so he put the little creature in the pocket of his hoodie, hoping the warmth from his own body would offer a bit of comfort. Then he made a detour to an animal shelter.

It was getting late and the shelter was about to close its doors for the night. The remaining volunteer took one look at the shivering orphan and clucked her tongue. “This little creature can’t be more than a week or ten days old, so the exposure to the elements will probably take their toll in the next twenty-four hours. I’m afraid there’s not a lot we can do to save it except keep it warm and dry.”

“Don’t you have a veterinarian on call who may be able to do more?” Neal asked apprehensively.

“There is a vet who volunteers his time,” she informed him, “but our resources are limited. I doubt he would come out tonight for a drowned stray kitten with little life left in its body. You must understand, we’re not being heartless. We have to make healthy, adoptable animals our priority.”

“But he’s a fighter,” Neal argued. “He hung on when all the odds were against him. That has to count for something.”

“I’m really sorry,” the volunteer said softly.

“Well, so am I,” Neal quipped, but he wasn’t about to throw in the towel just yet. Using his phone, he located the closest 24hr. emergency veterinary clinic and cabbed it. Both the vet and the technician seemed to agree with the shelter volunteer.

“This kitten isn’t even weaned yet, and its dangerously dehydrated,” he was told. “If you’re sure you want us to proceed, we can administer some hydrating IV fluids. That will take about a half-hour. If he’s still with us at that point, I can give you a synthetic formula that mimics a feline mother’s milk, and you can try using an eyedropper or a small syringe to continue to get some nourishment into the little guy. Let me warn you, it will be touch and go for the next few days, so try not to become too attached.”

Neal paid the exorbitant emergency fee with a credit card and left with the kitten and his supplies. Many times in his own past, smug people had counted Neal Caffrey as down for the count. And time after time, he had tenaciously proved them wrong. Judgmental people may have given up on Neal, but he wasn’t going to give up on this kitten. Together, they’d fight the good fight.

Neal cocooned the delicate creature in a soft afghan, and, every two hours through the night, let warm formula dribble into its almost slack mouth. Maybe he was deluding himself, but Neal thought the kitten’s muscle tone was a bit improved when the sun rose over the patio of the loft. Luckily, the new morning was a Saturday, heralding at least two days for Neal to play wet nurse and tend to his tiny patient. Between feedings, the furry baby slept on Neal’s chest just over his heart, and that soothing rhythm seemed to offer reassuring comfort for the little beast.

By Sunday morning, the kitten struggled to its feet and fixed his savior with a wide-eyed green stare. “Well, it looks like you’re feeling a bit better,” Neal informed his sleepover guest with a smile. He scooped up the little fur ball and gave him the once over. The animal was all black except for a white splash on his chest and four white feet. He looked like he was wearing a miniscule tuxedo.

“If you’re staying around for the long haul, then I guess you need a name,” Neal said thoughtfully. “Since you’re sporting formal wear, maybe something like ‘Fred,’—you know, like short for Fred Astaire. That old dude knew how to cut a rug while decked out in some mighty fine threads.”

The kitten meowed softly. “Is that a ‘no’ from the peanut gallery?” Neal asked facetiously.

“Okay, how about this—why don’t we name you ‘Moses,’ as a shout out to another abandoned soul set adrift in a basket on the water?”

The kitten had expended all its energy just rising to its feet, so it crawled over to Neal’s lap and snuggled close. Suddenly, a faint purring sound was emanating from its little body. “I’ll take that response as a yes,” Neal decided. “But maybe we don’t have to stand on ceremony. Maybe I’ll just call you _Moe_.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Late Sunday night, Neal sent up a signal on the bat phone to Mozzie. When the bespectacled bald man arrived, Neal introduced the new addition and begged his friend to lend a hand.

“I’ve got to go to work tomorrow, Moz, and Moe needs somebody to look after him. I’ve written out all the instructions so you’ll know what to do.”

“You expect me to babysit a cat?” Mozzie exclaimed in a high pitched whine. “When did I descend into the sad realm of nursemaid to an animal?”

“Please, Mozzie, he can’t survive without some help. Remember, you were an orphan once,” Neal wheedled.

“I have allergies, Neal, and my eyes will probably swell shut when assaulted by cat dander,” the horrified man complained.

“So, dose yourself with some antihistamines, Moz. You’ll be performing a lifesaving good deed,” Neal begged encouragingly.

Of course, in the end, Mozzie gave in and settled himself into his new role. In the workdays that followed, he alternated his labor of mercy with June. Even Bugsy was surprisingly helpful. The little Pug would curl his chubby body around the tiny kitten and snore contentedly with his charge between his paws.

Amazingly, Moe seemed to flourish and thrive under all this dedicated attention. Although he remained runtishly small, in the weeks that followed, his little body eventually filled out and his black fur glistened in the sunlight. Of course, Neal had taken the precaution of follow-up visits to the vet for checkups and the proper inoculations, but he could never seem to bring himself to have Moe neutered. Somehow, that just didn’t seem right in Neal’s mind. Moe had suddenly become Neal’s family, and the cat was never happier than when he could burrow under the covers at night in the tiger oak bed and snuggle with his favorite human.

It also just never seemed the proper time for Neal to make Peter aware of Moe’s existence. Besides, what Neal did on his own time should be none of his handler’s business, especially since it wasn’t something shady that fell outside the parameters of the law. The con man made sure to keep a lint roller in his desk at the FBI just in case he had missed a stray hair on his suit before coming to work. However, one morning Peter found himself peering closely at the collar of Neal’s grey jacket. In mid-sentence, he plucked a short black hair with his fingers and looked at his CI closely.

“An up close and personal encounter with a new fling, Neal?” Peter teased. “It looks like she’s a brunette with very short hair.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Meddlesome, but there is no new woman in my life,” Neal answered shortly.

“Then how do you explain this little extraneous piece of evidence?” Peter taunted.

“That _little piece of evidence_ is merely a stray cat hair,” Neal harrumphed. “Happy now?”

“I know June Ellington has a small dog, but did she recently get a cat as well?” Peter asked curiously.

Neal answered slowly. “Yes, Peter, there is currently a cat living under her roof.”

“Neal, you’re acting shifty,” Peter decreed. “Just spill all the details before I start having to imagine horrible scenarios that are somehow illegal.”

“I don’t know why you’re always so suspicious, Peter,” Neal complained. “It’s all quite simple and innocent. I rescued a stray cat and now he lives in my loft. End of a very boring story.”

“Somehow, you don’t strike me as a cat person, Neal,” Peter said dubiously.

“Well, that just shows your ignorance, Peter,” Neal said arrogantly. “I can be quite the quixotic Renaissance Man with eclectic tastes in art as well as in pets. Now, can you just let this interrogation go.”

“I want to see this creature with my own eyes,” Peter decreed in a firm tone. “I’ll be driving you home after the work day ends.”

And Peter was true to his word. At 5 o’clock he was standing over Neal’s desk tapping his foot. The drive was made in antagonistic silence as was the long climb up three flights of stairs. Neal opened his door and waved Peter through into the room. Mozzie was reading in a chair with a wine glass at the ready, and a small sleek black cat was curled contentedly atop the couch snoozing in a warm spot provided by the setting sun. It looked up curiously at the newcomer, and Peter could swear that the little feline narrowed its green eyes. Then it leaped gracefully to Neal’s shoulder and shimmied down to nestle inside his suit jacket where it peered out distrustfully.

“He’s kind of skittish,” Peter remarked.

“You’re a stranger that he’s never seen before, so you freaked him out,” Neal made the excuse.

“That’s not it,” Mozzie baited Peter. “He can smell a Fed a mile away and it offends his delicate olfactory senses.”

Peter ignored Mozzie and moved closer to Neal. “What’s his name?” he asked.

“Moe,” Neal answered shortly.

“Well, perhaps Moe needs some socialization away from the _questionable_ company he’s had to endure,” Peter sniped as he glared at Mozzie. “You should bring him by the house to meet El and Satchmo. Stop in tomorrow for dinner.”

Mozzie couldn’t help but snort. “First you insist on corrupting Neal’s nature, Suit. But, oh no, that’s not enough for you. Now you want to mess with his cat’s head, as well.”

Peter just scowled at the irritating bald man. “Tomorrow, Neal—6 pm, no excuses. Bring the wine and your little friend in a cat carrier. Of course, I was referring to Moe, not Mozzie.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal didn’t need a carrier for Moe. The little guy loved riding shotgun in the car, and when they arrived in Brooklyn, he snuggled trustingly in Neal’s arms as they made their way to the front door. He actually seemed curious when he spied Elizabeth and the yellow Lab. He allowed El to cuddle and coo over him as she stroked his small head. When placed on the floor, Moe boldly sidled over to the big dog and sashayed between his legs as he rubbed against Satchmo’s underside. Everything was pleasant and copacetic until the placid animal spied Peter in the kitchen. Suddenly, tiny ears became flattened against the head of a hissing feline.

Neal quickly picked up his cat and stroked the hair standing on end. “That’s the first time he’s ever done that,” the con man said in puzzlement. “I don’t understand this over the top response.”

Peter was confused as well, but philosophical. “I guess he’s just taken a dislike to me for some reason. That’s okay. Worse people than a snobbish dumb animal have had it in for me, so I’m not going to be offended by a stupid cat.”

Suddenly, it was Neal’s eyes that were narrowed into slits as he stared menacingly at his handler. “He’s neither dumb nor stupid, Peter.”

Elizabeth was quick to douse the sparks about to ignite. “Peter, that was a thoughtlessly nasty thing to say. You should apologize for your cruel attitude. Both Neal and Moe are guests in our house.”

“I’m not going to apologize to a cat!” Peter said incredulously.

“And I’m not going to dine with someone with your barbaric mindset,” Neal replied as he set the wine bottle down and retraced his steps to the door before he and Moe disappeared into the night.

Elizabeth was shaking her head in exasperation. “Peter, sometimes you come across as a caveman. You should think about your words before you speak to someone under your guidance. You know that Neal may seem secure, but he’s really quite vulnerable. If you want to gain his trust, first you have to gain his respect. I think you’ve taken two steps backwards tonight, Hon.”


	2. Trust Is an Elusive Thing

Peter tried to get the relationship with his CI back on track. An agent and a paroled felon hadn’t yet reached the one year benchmark, so it was a slow work in progress, with trust still quite an elusive thing. El was right. If Peter’s ultimate goal was to reform the brilliant con man, then he had to allow the young guy some slack from time to time. He couldn’t always be hovering and distrustful. He had to leave that for his nights at home when he watched Neal’s movements in real time on his laptop. Tracking anklets went a long way to insure Peter’s peace of mind. El would just shake her head in disappointment.

Neal seemed to have gotten over his snit and had returned to his job with a resigned attitude toward his indentured servitude. Occasionally, he would deign to come to Peter’s house, but always alone without his cat. Both men made it a point to avoid any discussions about Moe. Elizabeth would escort Neal to the door after the infrequent visits and slip him some little cat toy before he left.

“Baby steps, Neal,” she pleaded. “This whole mentorship thing is new for Peter, too, so please be patient with him. He really wants to trust you, so don’t rock the boat.”

Neal would give El’s arm a little squeeze and smile. “For you, Elizabeth, I’ll certainly try.”

Peter finally was able to experiment with a little latitude as well. Sometimes he’d skip a night of studying the tracking info. A few weeks later, he felt like kicking himself for his naivete when a representative from OPR showed up at the end of a workday, long after Neal had departed. Peter was shown evidence of some missing data on the tracking schematic that coincided with the theft of a Rembrandt from the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

“Your boy’s up to his neck in this, Agent Burke, and either you take him down or a SWAT team will,” the pugnacious man insisted.

“This is on me,” Peter said rigidly, “so, I’ll take care of business. My team and I will go to his loft and arrest him tonight.”

Jones and Diana accompanied their livid boss to the mansion on Riverside Drive. Peter pushed through the door to Neal’s loft without knocking and found his CI busy at the stove. His black cat was perched in his usual spot atop the sofa. When the con man turned in surprise, Peter shook his head in anger as he produced his handcuffs.

“I was a fool to trust you, Neal,” Peter barked. “The minute I dropped my guard, you took advantage. Make this go a little easier and tell me where that Rembrandt is.”

“Peter, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Neal said in confusion.

“Don’t insult me with your lies,” Peter yelled in frustration as he snapped the cuffs, one after the other, onto the con man’s wrists, while Jones and Diana stood off to the side and watched the drama play out. Suddenly, there was a low growling in the room, and Peter looked down expecting to see June’s dog somewhere at his feet. However, Bugsy was nowhere in evidence as the deep rumbling became more pronounced. Before Peter knew what was happening, a hissing heat-seeking missile launched itself from the couch at the agent’s chest, and sharp claws began raking at his neck. Moe was out for blood and gave new meaning to the phrase, “attack animal.”

It took both Jones and Diana to finally extricate the angry feline from Peter’s torso. The junior agents suffered their own share of nasty bites before they managed to throw a blanket over the snarling beast from hell.

“Take that lethal thing down to June Ellington,” Peter said as he dabbed at some deep scratches with his handkerchief.

“June’s not here,” Neal said worriedly. “She’s away on an extended cruise in the Mediterranean.”

“Well, then your little bald friend can do the honors if or when he makes an appearance,” Peter quipped.

Neal continued to look more worried about the safety of his beloved pet than about his own predicament. Peter really did have a heart so he found himself sighing resignedly. “Oh, hell, I’ll have Jones drop the obnoxious little tiger off to El, but that’s just a temporary measure,” Peter huffed.

“Thank you, Peter,” Neal replied gratefully.

When a disgruntled and disappointed Peter finally made it home after processing Neal at lockup and filing all the tedious paperwork, he cautiously opened the door to his own house. He was keeping a sharp eye out for a pissed off cat who was out to get him. Moe wasn’t hard to find. He was sitting in El’s lap accepting her soft stroking and calm words of comfort. When he saw the object of his wrathful vengeance, Moe’s ears flattened and he puffed up the fur on his lean body.

“It’s okay, Sweetie,” El tried to distract the avenging cat. “Peter had to do what he did and he’s just as upset as you are,” she murmured soothingly.

“I am upset,” Peter said mournfully as he carefully sidled past the couch and sat down gingerly in the Queen Anne wingchair by the fireplace. “I thought I had Neal on the straight and narrow, but apparently he was conning me the whole time. He just blew any trust he may have earned after all these months.”

“Are you really sure of that, Hon?” Elizabeth persisted. “Neal told me that he was really going to try to play by the rules, and I couldn’t help but believe that he was being sincere.”

“That’s his stock in trade,” Peter lamented. “He looks at you with his beguiling smile and you find yourself believing what comes out of his treacherous mouth.”

“I’m not totally convinced, Peter,” El said softly. “You need to look into this whole accusation a bit closer. Find out exactly how Neal managed to make his anklet go dark. And think about this, Hon. Neal knows that you always study his tracking data, so it was like waving a big red flag in your face when the lapse occurred exactly when the heist at the museum took place. That’s just too neat and tidy for me to swallow.”

Peter began to think that maybe El had a valid point. Now that he had calmed down, Peter realized there existed a troublesome issue. Quite frankly, the whole heist really seemed a very careless job for the brilliant con man to undertake considering the circumstances. It was also out of character for someone who always cautiously covered his tracks. Peter, the archeologist, would dig down deep the next day. In the meantime, the current dilemma was one very hostile cat just waiting for his chance to wreak havoc on Peter’s body.

“I’m afraid that thing will go for my jugular while I’m asleep,” Peter commented as he pointed at the angry animal.

“I’ll protect you, Hon,” El whispered softly. “Moe and I will cuddle together down here on the sofa while you get a good night’s rest. You need to be alert and on your game in the morning so that you can help Neal out of this predicament.”

It wasn’t an ideal solution, but Peter acquiesced in the short term and made his way up the stairs pondering deep thoughts. The next morning, he set about examining all the facts in Neal’s case and began to think that maybe the con man was being framed by somebody on the inside with access to his monitoring device. He was just about to pay a visit to his CI when the Marshals called to inform him that Neal had managed to slip away from his escort on the way to his arraignment in Federal court. Neal had disappeared without a trace.

“This looks bad,” Peter told El that night. “Innocent men don’t run.”

“Maybe he thought that he didn’t have a choice because no one was in his corner,” El commented wryly.

“Okay, maybe I rushed to judgment,” Peter acknowledged. “Now I don’t have the vaguest idea where to start looking for him. Dollars to donuts, Mozzie is with him and they’re holed up somewhere far from the long arm of the law. Neal left scorched earth behind as well as a homeless cat. So, where do we go from here?”

“Moe isn’t homeless,” El disagreed. “He’s got us.”

“I don’t know if the two of us can coexist on the same plane,” Peter remarked drolly. “Maybe we should try to find another place for him.”

“If Moe is all we have left of Neal, then he stays right here, Peter,” El decreed firmly. “You two will just have to abide a separate peace accord. If countries in the Middle East can manage that, then so can you.”

Peter sighed dramatically. “Okay, we can try it on a trial basis,” he finally relented, “but one more vicious scratch and he’s out the door. I think the less we interact, the better.”

Apparently, Moe agreed and made himself scarce the next day. In fact, he had totally disappeared somewhere in the small house.

“Are you sure he didn’t get past you when you let Satchmo out into the back yard?” Peter asked a concerned Elizabeth.

“I’m sure he didn’t streak out the door, Peter. I was very careful,” she answered. “Maybe he’s just hiding somewhere because he senses that you don’t like him. Or maybe, he’s just missing Neal and sulking. Cats can be very clever. They can manage to find the tiniest little spaces to squeeze into when they don’t want to be found.”

“Sounds like he takes after his owner,” Peter replied cynically. “Here today, gone tomorrow without a trace. Damn it, El, I think I’ve found the rotten apple in the Federal barrel who tried to make Neal the fall guy. If he would just come home, I could perhaps get him exonerated and reinstate our deal.”

“Look, Hon, let’s just try to solve one problem at a time,” El said sensibly. “Right now, Moe is our priority. I’m going to set some tasty cat food out tonight and we’ll see if it’s gone in the morning.”

El did just that and was relieved to see that the bowl in the kitchen had been licked clean. The litter box also contained evidence that Moe was alive and well. The ritual continued for almost a week with Peter and his wife searching high and low for the wayward and secretive feline. Finally, over the weekend, Peter found that an acoustic ceiling tile in the unfinished basement had been shoved to the side. “I think Moe is holed up in the floor joists down here in the cellar,” Peter called to El in triumph.

When Elizabeth joined her husband, she climbed a stepladder and whispered softly into the unlit and dusty space. “Moe, come out here to me, Sweetie. You must be so lonely living down in this dark place all by yourself. Come on, handsome boy, come to Mama and let me give you a hug and your coat a good brushing.”

Eventually, her soft cajoling proved fruitful. Moe stuck his small head out of the ceiling and El gratefully lifted him from his reclusive spot and held him close. “You’re a good kitty, and I think you deserve a treat. Let’s go up to the kitchen and I’ll hand-feed you some bits of tuna,” she fussed over him.

Peter had other ideas in mind. Passive-aggressive bad behavior didn’t warrant a reward. This vengeful animal had caused unnecessary worry, and Peter vowed it wasn’t going to happen again. While Moe was preoccupied daintily wolfing down white albacore, Peter crept up behind and slipped a small leather collar with a bell around the cat’s neck. “Gotcha! Now, how do you like them apples?” he crowed. “That little bell will tell us exactly where you are at all times.”

Moe glared at his nemesis and Peter could almost see the wheels turning in the animal’s brain as he, undoubtedly, was plotting his revenge. It didn’t take long. The next evening, Peter came home to find all of his ties previously hanging in the closet laying on the floor shredded into thin slivers of cloth. The slipped leather collar sat in the middle of the mess. A vindictive cat had even sprayed Peter’s shoes. However, nothing of El’s had been disturbed.

“I suppose Moe didn’t appreciate being collared any more than his owner did,” El remarked dryly. “Now what’s your plan, Peter? And don’t say that we get rid of him!” she added fiercely.

“I think we’ll just have to take our contest of wills to the next level,” Peter vowed. “That animal doesn’t even have opposable thumbs, so I’m a few rungs up on the evolutionary ladder. We’re going to the vet tomorrow. I managed to appropriate one of the Bureau’s newest toys. The geeks have developed a very tiny transmitter much smaller than the bulky ones the Forest Service uses to track migrating herds or endangered species in the wild. This gadget is constructed to actually recharge itself from the host’s own body energy. There’s talk that the boys down in Langley want to somehow place these little beauties on suspected terrorist group members because the range on them is phenomenal. I’m going to ask the vet to embed this chip under the skin on Moe’s neck. Let’s see him figure a way out of that!”

“Déjà vu,” El whispered under her breath, dismayed that her husband was overcompensating because he was frustrated. She was thankful Neal would never find out the lengths that Peter had gone to in order to keep Moe under his thumb.


	3. Keeping in Touch

Peter was now convinced that he had gained the upper hand, but he took great pains to avoid being alone in the same room as Moe, if at all possible. Elizabeth had returned to their bedroom after the small black cat had chosen to peacefully snuggle close to Satchmo each night in his dog bed. There was no more secretive hiding out, but the glaring and condemning looks from the cat continued day after day. Peter tried to ignore them as his own sense of guilt remained for not going to bat for his CI when he was in trouble.

“Okay, Moe, so I dropped the ball,” Peter found himself baring his soul one evening to the staring feline. “I should have had more faith in Neal, but, I’ll have to admit, that was a tricky business for me. Maybe you were willingly ‘all in’ with your trust, but for me, it was more about proving that he really was keeping his word. I know Neal has a good heart. You’re living, breathing proof of that. I guess I shouldn’t have rashly jumped to conclusions about his guilt, and now he’ll never know how sorry I am.”

Moe looked unmoved after that candid confession. His stare remained unrelenting. “You’re a tough audience,” Peter said woefully. “How about cutting me some slack. I’m the one who pays for that Fancy Feast stuff that you like so much.”

After that remark, the cat stood, stretched lithely, and ambled off for parts unknown. “You can run but you can’t hide,” Peter called out before feeling foolish. Why couldn’t it have been that easy to find Neal?

Peter redirected his fretful stress and continued to probe into what could be a cabal of evil manipulators flourishing within the Federal government. Those still faceless puppeteers had access to prison parolee records, and Peter theorized they were using their insider knowledge to set up former criminals as patsies in everything from fraud to money laundering, and even the transportation and sale of drugs. Those fat cats remained far above the fray, but they were continuing to get even fatter as they filled their offshore bank accounts.

Peter knew that he had to be careful and secretive during his sub rosa investigation. He only took Jones and Diana into his confidence after warning them of the implications if their clandestine searching was uncovered by the higher ups. When some concrete shady dealings were finally ferreted out, Peter read Reese Hughes into the situation. The old man had ties to some heavy hitters in certain top-secret organizations, so that proved helpful to make the dominos start to fall, one unscrupulous crook at a time.

The Federal housecleaning took months, and even reached into the august halls of Congress where representatives felt their status would protect them. Peter was very gratified to now have a name and a face to go with the crafty senator who had a stolen Rembrandt hanging in his Washington DC townhome. Although this wasn’t actual proof that would exonerate Neal, it might go a long way to sway a judgment in his former CI’s favor. Of course, that was a possible future scenario only if Neal were found.

Then, one day, there was another crisis in the Burke household. Peter arrived home to find a worried El pacing. “Peter, Moe is missing again. I checked the basement ceiling and it wasn’t disturbed. I’ve been calling and calling and he hasn’t come to me. His food hasn’t been touched, and even Satchmo can’t seem to locate him. Now I’m worried that he may have slunk off somewhere because he’s sick. Cats do that when they’re hurting.”

“Calm down, Hon, I’ve got this,” Peter reassured her as he opened his laptop and entered his password for the transmitting app. Within seconds, a comforting little dot appeared on the screen. Peter did a doubletake and rebooted the system only to get the same bizarre result.

“What does it show, Peter,” El asked anxiously. “Where’s Moe?”

“Actually, Hon, this tracking data claims that Moe is somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, halfway on a direct route to Europe!”

While a gobsmacked husband and wife were processing that fantastic bit of intel, a little bald man on a jumbo jet sneezed before cracking open a bottle of water and downing an allergy pill. He then peered down at a little black cat sleeping peacefully in his carrier beneath the seat in front of him. Mozzie sighed. He owed Neal a lot, but becoming a catnapper somehow seemed over the top and beyond the call of duty.

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter and El sat up all night watching the dot’s progress. Eventually, the implanted tracking device stabilized over Costa del Sol on the Mediterranean Sea. Peter, uncharacteristically, sat on his hands for two more days, just to reassure himself that the coast of Spain was not simply a jumping off point for other places in Europe. When the dot stayed put over the small town of Málaga, he did his own research into the area.

Costa del Sol was a dream destination with its mild subtropical climate and its pristine beaches of unusual black sand. Quaint red tile roof residences adorned with ornate ironwork were set among swaying palm trees, as was a walking promenade that meandered along the magnificent shoreline. Peter perused photos of small fishing vessels outlined by the rising sun over the water as they brought in the daily catch bound for the many seafood restaurants that flourished in the area.

When Peter dug deeper, he came to realize that Málaga was far from just a quaint, sleepy little Andalusian town. The city was actually an important tourist destination with almost six million foreign visitors each year. It wouldn’t have been hard for Neal to blend in, especially since he was fluent in Spanish. Peter could envision his wayward CI leisurely eating tapas and listening to Flamenco music as dark-eyed girls twirled and clicked their castanets. He was also probably taking in the popular attractions in the town which included Pablo Picasso’s birthplace and the Museo Picasso Málaga. Maybe Neal occasionally made his way up the hills to Gibralfaro Castle, which offered panoramic views of the expansive harbor that boasts of being the second busiest cruise port in the Iberian Peninsula. There were other interesting sights to behold in the surrounding area that gave testament to Andalucía’s eclectic history. There was the Alcazaba, an old Muslim palace, remnants of a Roman theatre, an old Jewish quarter, as well as the mudejar-styled Church of Santiago.

When Peter shared all this information with Elizabeth, she agreed that Costa del Sol seemed to be a little piece of paradise. “Are you going to Spain, Peter, to yank Neal out of his Garden of Eden?”

“I’m kinda on the fence about that,” he admitted sheepishly.

“Surely with everything you’ve managed to expose about the evil villains in the government, you should be able to clear Neal of those false charges,” El claimed. “You even know the name of the senator who was in possession of the stolen Rembrandt.”

Peter sighed and then enlightened his spouse about some troubling implications. “I’m afraid it’s not that easy, El. In fact, it’s become extremely complicated. All government bureaucrats have their own personal army of lawyers and spin doctors who manage to muddy the waters. That particular senator was interrogated and is claiming that the Rembrandt was a gift from a lobbyist who was trying to garner favor for the oil industry. The senator emphatically stated that he accepted what he thought was a reproduction, but did not endorse big oil in any way, shape, or form, and his voting record in Congress bears that out. However, the lobbyist in question somehow wound up dead in Rock Creek Park very recently. His death was initially ruled a suicide since the poor slob had a very handy goodbye note in his pocket saying that he was despondent over his failed marriage. It was only the very close scrutiny by the coroner that revealed something much more ugly and sinister. Apparently, the lobbyist was quite an over-zealous fellow because he somehow not only managed to put a bullet in his own head—miraculously, he managed to do it a second time. So now it’s classified as an unsolved homicide. I’d prefer to term it a political assassination.”

“My God,” Elizabeth breathed in horror. “Peter, if you brought Neal home, you may be putting him in the crosshairs of some very evil and deadly people. Even you could be the next target.”

“I’m just a cog in a wheel, Hon, and pretty far down on the totem pole of significance,” Peter assured her. “Other big shots are running with this and will claim all the headlines as well as the glory. But I do worry about Neal because he could be a loose end that some bad guys may want to tie up permanently.”

“So, I’m asking again—what are you going to do about you know who?” El whispered softly as her mind conjured up possible listening devices planted in her home.

“Nothing, for now,” Peter whispered back, just as quietly.

~~~~~~~~~~

Over the days that followed and, eventually, turned into weeks, that was not exactly what Peter really did. Every morning and every evening he brought up the tracking data. It became an established ritual and gave him a great deal of comfort to know that Neal was safe and secure with his little black cat far away from Washington’s evil mongers. Maybe Neal had even managed to woo the elusive Kate back to his side. From the far reaches of his mind, Peter recalled an old adage that a news station used to habitually run after its last broadcast of the evening. A serious voice had intoned, _“Do you know where your child is tonight?”_ And every night, Peter did know where his former partner was, so he was able to trundle off to bed at peace with the world.

Of course, the FBI agent routinely performed his due diligence, making sure to check international reports highlighting any stupendous heists that may have occurred in or around Andalusia. Thankfully, things seemed quiet on that front. Time in paradise appeared to be humming along serenely without incident. Elizabeth couldn’t help but notice Peter’s newly acquired compulsive habit, and, one evening she approached him with several feathered cat toys in her hand as he stared complacently at his laptop.

“I found these under some old blankets in the closet. I think that’s where Moe kept his stash,” she smiled fondly before sighing deeply. “I know he was only with us for just a short while, but I got very attached, nonetheless. I just couldn’t help myself, and I really, really miss him.”

“So do I, El,” Peter replied softly, although he really wasn’t talking about an obnoxious little black cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this story was begging for a sequel, so one is in the works. Look for “Closure,” which I’ll start posting soon.


End file.
